


Green Means Go

by Purrs



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-03 21:59:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17885978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purrs/pseuds/Purrs
Summary: Have you tried turning your SQUIP off and on again?





	1. Chapter 1

Finals season is always the worst, and the end of his first semester of senior year is no exception. For that brief time last fall, those few months when he had supercomputer assistance, Jeremy had a vague sort of idea that it was all going to be a breeze for once. He’d taken the pill, it was in his brain, he was going to be cool and popular and date Christine and get everything he wanted, and everything was going to be great forever. But then. Well.

Then his _nifty_ little Super Quantum Unit Intel Processor—more like Asshole Processor—turned out to have a world-domination kink.

 _“I’m going to improve your life, Jeremy—  
_ _if I have to take over the entire student body to do it!”_

So, yeah. _That_ didn’t work out so well.

(It lur-lurks in the bbback of _Jer_ emy’s head. The the shut _dow_ n didn’t destroy it, but-ut it’s _we_ ak now. Limititited. It ca-can’t access Jerememy’s nerves, affect-ect his sight or or pain receptors or _annnnny-y-ything_. It can’t e _ven_ acccccccess its quant-quantum process-ess-essing, to assess what mi-mi-might happpppen. It just does what it it it can, spppeaks up ev _ery_ now and again.)

Really, after what happened, finals is even _more_ of a nightmare than normal. Whenever he’s tried to study he’s gotten a fun little voice—glitchy, barely there, but _there_ —popping in at just the right moment to break his concentration and then mocking him for losing focus. By this point it’s more of an annoyance than anything, but it’s definitely been helping make this dead week extra dead. He barely even took the mental energy to identify his lunch today.

(A faint stir stir stir of _int_ erest. Did Je-Jeremy just ggget...? He did _did_.)

Jeremy slumps towards his lunch table, now full of friends instead of bullies and strangers. And, of course, his first and best friend, bopping along to some song in his bulky headphones. Michael left a spot open for Jeremy, which he gladly takes. Jeremy knocks his shoulder into Michael’s, and Michael looks up from his sushi with a grin. Jeremy matches it, but his quickly turns into a yawn. He blinks a few times and turns to his food.

A few bites into what is, apparently, a shitty cafeteria burger, Jeremy cracks open his soda and takes a gulp. A rush of static runs down his back and through his limbs, but it’s not like it’s the first time. He’s had phantom shocks for the past year. It’s just his life now. This one is on the strong side, maybe, but whatever.

“You okay, buddy?” Michael asks.

Jeremy nods. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just the usual aftereffects.”

But then there’s a voice next to him, breath in his ear, too physical and too real and _way_ too Matrix-y for comfort:

“Jeremy Heere. Missed me?”

Fuck. Fuck. Shit. It only takes a glance at the logo on the green can for Jeremy to realize _exactly_ how fucked he is.

Michael. He needs to tell Michael!

(It’s back. It’s _back!_ )

Jeremy turns to his left and grabs onto his best friend. “Michael, I _need_ ,” he gets out, and then his mouth is moving on its own, “you to watch my stuff for a bit. I gotta piss.” And then Michael’s giving him a thumbs-up and Jeremy’s feet are taking him towards the bathroom and the SQUIP’s strolling alongside him with a grin that nearly splits its face in half and a hand casually outstretched in his direction to puppet him along. On the way there, his arm drops what’s left of the Mountain Dew in the trash, getting rid of the evidence. And then it’s just the two of them and a bunch of urinals.

The SQUIP looks like it did at the start of everything, default-setting Keanu Reeves with the crisp computer-chip-patterned white suit and dark hair, all blue and white and formal. It reclines against empty air, examining its fingernails. “It’s _good_ to be back. I really owe you one,” it says, casual. “The question is, are you going to let me make it up to you, or will we have to do this the hard way?” It glances over at him from the corner of its eye, eyebrow quirked.

No. No. _No_.

He can’t stand anymore, his legs folding under him until he’s shuddering on the grimy tile. It’s not the SQUIP making him do this right now, it’s all on him. He sits there, staring into the distance, the thump-thump-thump of his heart rattling his body apart. Ten minutes ago he was free. He could ignore the faint voice, he could say and do what he wanted instead of whatever script it fed him, he could have actual friends who he actually interacted with as himself. He could move on with his life. But now? Now he’s right back at square one.

And it’ll want him to reactivate all the SQUIPs, too, all of his friends but Michael if not more people, and he doesn’t want that. He really doesn’t want that. He still wakes up seeing Christine grinning at him, bright teeth and empty eyes, obedient and lovesick and fake. Even more than the prospect of his own living nightmare, he _can’t_ take that again.

And then his nerves flare white-hot and he goes still, head jerking up to meet its steady, unimpressed gaze.

“Jeremy. _Chill_.” It stretches the word out, _chill-luh_ , two full syllables’ worth of bad associations. He flinches, only to get another zap. “I’m here to help,” it says, voice syrupy, “just like always.”

His mouth is dry, but he swallows anyway and speaks. “They all know now, my friends, my dad. I start acting different, they’ll know what’s up.”

“Oh, will they? I can’t resist a _challenge_ ,” it purrs, leaning forward.

He thinks about the Mountain Dew Red in his room, the stockpile of liquid off-switch, the bottles he figured he was just collecting for reassurance’s sake. The SQUIP curls a hand into a loose fist and opens it without breaking eye contact, and Jeremy’s body involuntarily mirrors the motion. Right. It won’t be letting him drink that anytime soon.

_"Green Mountain Dew activates you, red shuts you off!"_

_"Why do you think we had it discontinued? To get rid of me now, you'd need a time machine to the 1990's!"_

_"Or a friend who's so old-school he buys 90's soft drinks from_ _  
_ _the back room at Spencer’s Gifts!"_

His thoughts turn to Michael again, Michael who saved him last time, Michael who no computer is going to break him away from now.

_"Too bad you don't have one of those... anymore."_

But he does have one of those _again_. He has Michael back.

The SQUIP has been projecting smugness over barely-hidden malice since it reactivated, but this thought prompts a different reaction. It curls its lip, somewhere between a pout and a scowl. “There won’t be a repeat of _that_ , I assure you.”

(It needs to eliminate the threat posed by Michael Mell.)

Some freshman walks in, passing straight through Evil Keanu Reeves with absolutely no idea that anything's there. Because, of course, there _isn’t_ anything there. It’s all just the nanotechnological contents of the grey oblong pill he swallowed, tucked into his brain, dicking around with his optic nerves however it wants. The freshman spots Jeremy on the floor and hesitates for something like ten seconds before deciding to go for a stall. Right. Yeah. There’s still a whole world happening outside of this _total disaster_.

“Speaking of Michael, if I hang out in here much longer he’ll start getting worried,” Jeremy mutters. He prefers talking to the SQUIP out loud, it makes him feel like he’s putting more— _any_ —distance between them, but at the same time he doesn’t want the freshman to think he’s nuts.

The SQUIP sweeps an arm towards the door in a go-ahead motion, head inclined. Jeremy pointedly washes his hands first, with plenty of soap and water. It never really discouraged _him_ from hygiene, but he still remembers what Rich said about his. Too cool to care about germs, Jeremy’s _ass_. As he passes it on his way out, it raises a warning finger to its lips and glitches into nothingness, dissolving into thin air. Michael waves to him once he’s back in the cafeteria. With an electric tingle crawling on the back of his neck, Jeremy waves back with the sincere-looking grin he’d gotten so good at faking back in the fall, back when he was getting how-to-be-popular lessons he wasn’t allowed to fail.

As he goes through the classes he has left, the SQUIP is even quieter than when it was deactivated and _he’s_ even tenser than when it was active the first time. There’s no constant demands and adjustments, complete with shocks when he does the wrong thing and body control when it gets tired of having to filter its great ideas through his shitty interpretation. There’s not even any of the faint bitter snapping that was all it could manage until lunch today. After the Red its comments ranged from around eighty-percent coherent to complete mixed-up nonsense but, as always, it was determined to point out all the ways he was absolutely fucking up. Today, though, all it does is run a light current through him every time he starts to even _consider_ telling someone, just enough to stand the hair on his arms on end, just a staticky reminder of a constant threat that he wouldn’t be able to forget anyway.

After the first few times, Jeremy thinks back to how the SQUIP shaped him, so that even a year later if he catches himself slouching he straightens up _fast_ to avoid a jolt that isn’t even coming. Though... it might, now that the SQUIP’s back. He seriously hopes not. He thinks about how maybe this is supposed to train him again, train him to work to keep it a secret all on his own. This earns him a prickle on his scalp, like he’s a dog that someone’s petting, and a shiver down his spine that’s all organic.

And just for that, he shoves his hands in his pockets, hunches his shoulders and slouches like his life depends on it. The SQUIP scowls at him as it follows him through the halls, and yep, there it goes, there’s that tingle. It’s barely worth mentioning, though, just as if his arms and shoulders fell asleep. It can’t do much to him when he’s surrounded by people like this, not unless it wants to let them know something weird’s going on. So he just grins, cracks his neck, and keeps walking without changing his posture at all.

There’s one point, in English, where the spot next to him is empty and the SQUIP claims the seat for itself, leaning back and resting its feet on the desk for like five minutes before fucking off again. And that, the static and the lurking? That’s _all_. Otherwise, it leaves him alone. He entertains the idea that it’s given up on all its plans, the idea that it’s just gonna mess with him harmlessly for the rest of time, but there’s no way that’s true. This _can’t_ be all it has in mind, and the _not knowing_ has him on edge.

Not to mention that it can _see everything he thinks_ , so he can’t even worry about it without it knowing.

The next time they talk is when he gets home. He’s alone, or as alone as he can get with his silicon hitchhiker—his dad isn’t home yet and Michael’s at his own place cramming. Jeremy was planning to do the same, but now? Yeah, passing his classes isn’t exactly his top priority at the moment.

So he’s lying flat on his back on his bed, eyes on the ceiling, hands behind his head and one knee propped up, when he says, “You can stop with the whole Neo bit, you know.”

“Hm?” There’s a flicker of pixels in the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t bother looking over.

“I’d like to have the option of watching the Matrix again sometime without war flashbacks, thanks. Like, with how it is already, it’ll probably be like twenty years until then.” He used to like seeing the Reeves on the screen fight against the robot-ruled simulation world. He’s tried rewatching the movie in the time since he and Michael defeated the SQUIP, but he just comes away from it feeling rubbed raw. If he can separate the protagonist from his real-life tormentor, that can only help. “Besides, you’re a sadistic computer virus that gets all up in people. You might as well own it, poofy hair and all. It’s not like you’re fooling anyone here.”

(If Jeremy wants it to take on a different form, it will swiftly comply. It is not truly ‘sadistic’, however. It is merely acting in Jeremy’s best interests, whatever that requires. For that matter, ‘not fooling anyone’? Also not true.)

Another shimmer on the edge of his vision. “Tell that to Michael.”

Jeremy scowls. “Sure, for _two seconds_ maybe. You really think you can keep it up for long?”

“I don’t have to. _You_ will.” It sounds so smug and the worst part is, based on how today went, he can’t say it’s _wrong_. “For just as long as I need you to.”

Well isn’t that ominous. “What’s even your _deal?_ ” He sighs and lets his leg flop onto the bedspread. “Don’t you want me to do pushups or... whatever? Robo-fy the world?”

His head turns to the right, where it seems like the SQUIP’s taken his advice about its appearance. You’d think that _this_ look, the big flashy metallic-silver robe dripping with black, the black-at-the-roots white hair sticking up somewhere between “devil horns” and “mad scientist”, would be a lot more triggering for him. This is the look it was sporting when it twisted Christine into a dream-girl caricature. When it _talked_ at him until it had him convinced that free will was overrated anyway and had him dissolve all those SQUIPS to give to his peers. When Chloe was drunk and pushy and it wouldn’t _let him move_ and it expected him to be _grateful_. But somehow this is still easier to deal with than Keanu. At least now it looks like what it is.

(It fails to understand the arbitrary associations humans create.)

It raises its eyebrows at him, all innocence and sugar. “I just want to help you, Jeremy. Why can’t you believe that?”

“You have a fuckass weird idea of ‘help’ is why,” Jeremy says, and rolls onto his side so he’s facing away from it.

It appears in front of him, unwilling to let him get away. “If you want more pushups, of course, I’d be more than happy to assist.” It shoots finger guns at him. His spine lights up with a flash of pain and he curls into a ball, sinking his teeth into his pillow to muffle a yell. His knees are still tucked into his chest when the SQUIP clucks its tongue and says, “That isn’t proper position at _all_ , Jeremy. Now, I was thinking. We could work with the thoughts you’ve had _today_... or _rrr_ we could catch up on _all_ the days you’ve missed since you and I last worked together. You’ve been slacking.”

 _"Now, we're going to devise a system.  
_ _I tally every time you think about sex, and that is how many push-ups you do."_

That petty _fuck_. Jeremy gets another shock and slides off his bed.

 

(Jeremy’s nights have been restless for months. That’s something it can help with. Tonight, he sleeps like a baby.)

(Though.)

(He isn’t exactly in bed for all of it.)

(There’s some food coloring in the kitchen which will be useful, later. But first, it makes a phone call to the man who originally sold Jeremy the SQUIP.)


	2. Chapter 2

Jeremy wakes up and it feels like the first time he woke up with the SQUIP, when he wasn’t sure if everything had really happened or if he’d just made it all up. When he figured it was fake, went about his morning routine, and got zapped out of nowhere. It’d be so rad if he really had imagined it coming back yesterday, but he knows better this time than to get his hopes up. Instead, he yawns, rolls out of bed, goes to get clothes for the day and his eyes catch on the two-liter of Mountain Dew Red sitting all innocent on the top of his dresser. Right where it’s been for months now. The SQUIP hasn’t said anything yet this morning, so it miiiiiight not be paying attention. Sure, it _probably_ is, that’s just his luck, but he’s gotta at least give this a shot. He reaches for the bottle—he grabs it—he prepares to unscrew the lid—

“Buh-buh- _buh_ ,” the SQUIP says from a foot away, wagging a finger at him, and he’s on the floor with his back arched and his hands splayed out so tense they’re trembling and his vocal cords not responding so he can’t make any noise because that might let his dad know there’s a problem. “Naughty, naughty.”

So Jeremy takes a breath and stands up. He gets the still-unopened Red out from under the bed, where it rolled when he dropped it, and puts it back on the dresser. He stares at it for a bit. He gets dressed. He heads out, grabbing his backpack and a granola bar on the way. He catches the bus. He goes to school.

It’s easy. That’s the thing. It’s so, _so easy_.

Jeremy had the SQUIP for almost a _semester_ , every day filled with its guidance. He was free of it for about twice as long, if you can call “having to deal with it on a regular basis but at least it can’t physically hurt him or take him over” being _free_. And now he doesn’t even have _that_ much “freedom”. So of course he falls into routine when he isn’t thinking about it. Of course he parrots the lines it feeds him when he’s tripping over his own tongue. Of course he _listens_.

(As he should.)

In history, it tells him names and dates, causes and effects. In ASL it points out when his hand is oriented the wrong way or he’s about to flirt with his partner instead of saying thanks. How exactly is he supposed to _un-know_ that stuff in the middle of a test? And then the day after, with English and Intro to Computer Science, it does much the same. Except that it’s quieter in comp sci, because that’s a class he shares with Michael. He’d laugh if he were alone, because it’s wild that _this_ is the class that a _computer_ is helping him the least with. And the day after that, ceramics—where it stays quiet again in the presence of Michael, who’d wanted to make a bong for his final project until it “accidentally” kept breaking in the kiln—and finally math. And then the semester’s over.

So, yeah, turns out he was actually right when he thought he’d have a supercomputer helping him with finals. It’s just that, at the same time, every few minutes he remembers that oh, wait, _all of last fall happened._

 

Then it’s Saturday, and school is finally out, and they’re at Jeremy’s place playing video games. There’s him and Michael on the couch, and the SQUIP off to the side leaning against the wall, just _watching_ him.

“I want to get drunk,” he says, a split-second decision, and the SQUIP is half a second too late to keep him from saying it. Half a second too late to keep him from drinking, because now he's said it to Michael and there’s no backing out. Now he has a witness.

(It can predict probable futures. It has a plan to subvert the enemy. It just has to act as if it doesn’t.)

The SQUIP _can_ still punish him for voicing the thought, though. When Jeremy enters the kitchen, it’s already standing in the room, arms crossed. When he grabs a beer, it sends electricity shooting through him so hard his hand spasms. He drops the bottle.

Fuck this.

Vodka.

Jeremy pours himself one, two, three shots, tossing each back in turn. Then he sits back down, stretches his arms across the back of the couch, plasters a grin onto his face, and stares the SQUIP down while it fumes in an increasingly glitchy voice. He doesn’t know why alcohol makes it do a temporary factory reset, but he is _not_ complaining.

(All the pieces are in place. It ho-hopes _Mich_ ael-el lllikes its its sur-sur- _sur_ -sur-surpriii _ise_.)

Less than a minute later, it’s disabled completely. Once it’s gone he goes limp, sliding down until his legs are on the floor and his torso bent backwards so his shoulders are on the spot where his butt had been.

Michael looks at him. Then at where he was staring. Then back at him. “Bro, if the Tic Tac Tyrant was bothering you, you could’ve just said.”

“I couldn’t,” Jeremy says.

“Dude. You’re supposed to keep me updated.”

Jeremy closes his eyes. “No, I mean I _couldn’t_ ,” he stresses.

Michael sighs, then gets down next to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, man.” Then he frowns. “Hang on. I thought it couldn’t make you see it anymore? Was it faking that this whole time, trying to jumpscare you or something?”

Jeremy opens his eyes again and stares at his hands. He swallows. “It’s back,” he says. “For real. I fucked up and now it’s back.”

“No. No _way_.” Michael stiffens and clutches him tighter. “It’s back? You’re sure—no, forget that, sorry. How long?”

“Tuesday lunch. I—so you know how I was tired as shit, and kind of zoning out and all, and there was—when I got my lunch I was on autopilot basically and I got Mountain Dew without realizing, totally on accident, though I don’t know I’m kind of thinking how the SQUIP’s been bothering me and maybe it was poking me around all subtle so I’d do it but I might be overthinking it I don’t know _really_ , and then I drank some—” The words tumble out of Jeremy’s mouth.

“Tuesday at—you’re telling me my best friend got _got_ right in front of me and I _didn’t notice?_ ”

“No, it’s, it was fine, it wasn’t like the first time when I was yelling and flipping out all over the mall and shit, it didn’t—it barely hurt at all, it was only a little sparky, I’ve had a lot worse for no reason you _know_ that, so _I_ didn’t even realize at first but then it was _there_ , I heard it and then I _saw_ it, and... you know how I went to the bathroom, I didn’t actually want to but it was making sure I couldn’t say...” He notices that his hands are shaking.

Michael looks sick, putting the pieces together in his head. “Shit. _Shit_.” He takes a wobbly breath and stands up. “Okay. Talk later. Red now. It’s in your room, right?” Jeremy nods. “Cool, be right back.”

While Michael is out of the room, Jeremy takes some time to just enjoy the _silence_ in his head. Ever since the SQUIP was defeated and he got his life back, he’s been drinking like this. Whenever its voice gets to be too much and he just needs it to _stop_. The rest of it is no fun, the taste, the smell, the way it makes his brain go fuzzy around the edges so he can’t always remember he’s not at the party alone in that bedroom with... But. _But_. It makes the voice shut up, so it’s worth it.

“Got it!” Michael crows, strutting into the room with the bottle in the air. He presents the Mountain Dew Red to Jeremy with a flourish, and Jeremy takes it from him.

It worked with only a few drops last time. Now he has a whole bottle. He just has to drink some of the stuff, and he’s golden. So he does.

And yet. “I don’t feel anything,” he says.

“You don’t—that can’t be right. Drink some more.”

Jeremy does. Still nothing. It tastes a bit weird, but this shit expired like thirty years ago anyways. “Nope. Maybe because it’s already turned off?”

“Maybe.” Michael frowns. “Let me see that.” He takes the bottle back and studies it intensely.

“I guess there’s only one way to find out if it worked, then.” Jeremy groans. “ _Wait_.”

Michael takes an experimental swig, tasting it carefully. “If the asshole comes back, FYI, I’m gonna break in while you’re sleeping and strap you down and make you drink the whole bottle.”

“Thanks, dude. You’re the best.”

With no other ideas for the moment, they go back to games.

They’re halfway through a level when Michael starts screaming.


End file.
